You Owe Me Five Farthings

by Jane Anstey

  But to his amazement she had refused the gambit, had shown no interest or perturbation about his weekend absence, had gone on eating her breakfast as though he had declared his intention of going out for a walk with the dog. He didn’t believe she was subtle enough to dissemble. If she had felt anger and jealousy, he would have known, if only by her withdrawal into hurt silence. At least, he thought he would have known. But the unwelcome idea was beginning to present itself that perhaps he did not know his wife as well as he had thought.

  Baffled, he said nothing more. Having declared his intention of going away for the night, he had better carry it through. It would look stupid in the extreme to change his mind and lamely tell her that he didn’t have to go after all. Besides, in her present mood she probably wouldn’t react either way. She would continue in her own sweet way, doing the household chores, talking to Robert kindly and with love (in his chagrin he felt for a moment a little envy of his son), and then go off to bed on her own. He could visit her there, of course, as he had on Christmas Eve, but he had the feeling that the outcome would not be the same. His unexpected success on that occasion must have owed something to his coming upon her unawares, arousing her while she was asleep. It would not be easy to re-create those circumstances, and in any case the idea repelled him. What he wanted now was Rose’s willing, conscious response.

  He packed a suitcase on Saturday morning, noticing for the first time the absence of many of Rose’s clothes from the wardrobe––another indication that she was becoming more separate, and not, as he had hopefully concluded the previous weekend, consumed with passion and just waiting for him to light the spark that would reunite them. Not knowing where he would go and what he would do with the weekend, his selection of clothes was made slightly at random. He would find a country hotel somewhere and go for a round of golf, perhaps, he thought; and with that possibility in mind, he packed suitable golfing clothes and put the bag of clubs into the car.

  As he left the house he said goodbye to Robert who, uncomplicated in his filial affection, gave him a hug, saying, “I hope you’re going somewhere nice, Daddy. Will you take me with you next time?”

  Rose just said vaguely, “We’ll see you for supper tomorrow,” which was not very satisfactory, but clearly all he was going to get. He started the BMW and set off down the lane towards the main road.

  At the fork, he hesitated and then took the lane that led him across country through the villages to the north. He emerged onto the B-road that led into Northchurch five miles away, meandered through the little town and across the ancient, narrow bridge that had recently been given a modern neighbour to take one carriageway of traffic, and headed up onto the downs. Another B-road would take him to the A38 and into Newbury, where he might pick up the motorway or go on towards Oxford. Why he had turned north rather than south he didn’t quite know, but it seemed as good a direction as any. He climbed up over the downs towards Kingsclere where a string or two of horses were out on this bright late December morning, jumping the practice fences on the gallops and making the most of the temporarily mild weather. Their warm breath smoked in the cool air as they sped along, muscles rippling under their skin, stable lads crouched over their necks. He halted in a layby for a few minutes to watch them.

  His enthusiasm for getting away from the family for a whole weekend seemed to have deserted him, and for a while he toyed with the idea of simply turning around and going home. It seemed foolish to drive on when he didn’t know where he was going. He decided in the end to retrace his steps as far as the hotel he had passed a few minutes earlier. Why spend time and petrol travelling further, when he could stay near at hand? The hotel would have a bedroom available, surely, at this time of year, and there was a good golf course back at Northchurch a couple of miles away. He would book in there and spend the weekend golfing and let Rose make of it what she would.

  He had driven right up to the old monastery and parked by the steps leading to the main door before he realised that, although he distinctly remembered reading in the local newspaper some years ago that planning permission had been granted to convert it into a hotel, it seemed to be nothing of the sort. The central part had clearly been restored recently, simply and without ostentation, and a discreet sign by the steps told him that it had been renamed Whitehill Abbey and Retreat House.

  He had switched off the engine before he saw this sign, and he sat for a few minutes staring at it, curiously unwilling to turn the car and drive away again, although that was clearly the sensible thing to do. He had come expecting a hotel, and had found a religious institution; and the house’s progression from one state to the other mystified him, although he felt no particular curiosity about it. The use of buildings changed over the years, and that was all there was to it. Nothing to do with him. He would have to find another hotel—retrace his steps to Northchurch, perhaps. There was quite a decent inn there.

  Yet suddenly he felt terribly aimless. What on earth was he doing, driving round the local countryside looking for a hotel, not knowing where he was going or what he wanted to do when he got there? From somewhere deep within, unbidden, the thought came that he was lost not only geographically but personally. Over the last few weeks, ever since the night Robert went missing and came back traumatised, his whole life had become an aimless wandering in an unmapped desert, a struggle for meaning where before he had not felt the need of any, driven by an inner world full of conflict that was tearing him apart.

  He sat and looked at the monastery sign, and thought about the word Retreat. He knew vaguely what a retreat was, in church parlance, though he had never had the least desire to go on one. But he recognised now how attractive a space of silence and reflection might be to someone beset by busy-ness and unsure of his direction in life. Like myself, he found himself thinking before he could deflect the thought. How ridiculous, he told himself. What am I doing, even thinking about it? A weekend’s golf––that’s all I need.

  ~ * ~

  Jan stood at the window of his office and watched the car arrive. From the length of time the driver sat in the seat apparently in two minds as to whether he should get out of the car or not, this was someone in some kind of difficulty. Possibly he was just lost, or had turned up the driveway in error. But possibly he was hesitating over whether or not he should enter the monastery precincts. God had brought him, Jan decided, but he hadn’t come willingly, or perhaps even consciously.

  He stepped quickly out of the office and with a nod to Brother Doorkeeper trod briskly down the stone steps to the driveway. Anyone who came was welcome, and the more mysterious and unlikely they were, the better. Life as abbot could get very tedious without a few doses of the unexpected to litter the path. He had enjoyed the visit of Mike and Jeremy Swanson, but the crop of visitors that had arrived for the weekend already had not seemed in any way remarkable. He had better catch this one before he made a run for it.

  Clive had already started the engine and put the gear lever into reverse, when he found that a tall monk in a black habit was standing by his window, looking enquiringly at him. He lowered the window and said quickly, “I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you. I thought it was a hotel, but I see that it isn’t. I’m just on my way out.”

  The monk smiled. He was a lean, middle-aged man with receding dark hair, wearing a standard habit with the cowl hanging back, but his face didn’t look as Clive had imagined a monk’s would. It was serene, but it wasn’t other-worldly. Indeed, the impression it gave was of great vigour, both physical and mental. This was a virile, decisive man, even if he had embraced chastity and obedience.

  “You don’t need to run away, you know,” Jan said, gently, but with a gleam of humour. “The abbey church is open to the public. And if you want to stay longer, we run a retreat house as well as a monastery. You are very welcome to stay for a night or two if you wish. It won’t be a luxurious experience, of course, if that’s what you’re looking for. But I don’t think that is what you’re looking for, is it?”r />
  The dark eyes looked straight into his, and Clive found himself meeting that direct gaze with trepidation but at the same time with a sense of homecoming. This man seemed to perceive, as no one else had ever done, the inner uncertainties that fuelled Clive’s criticism of others and his fear of failure.

  There was a pause, and then the monk suggested: “Why not come in and have a cup of coffee, and we can talk. Leave the car where it is––it’s safe enough.”

  The words were mild, but there was something compelling about the way the invitation was delivered. Without further hesitation, Clive turned off the engine, got out of the car, and followed the monk into the house.

  The big entrance door gave onto a large dim hall, off which opened several smaller doors and a passageway that led off into the interior of the building. A little monk bustled towards them, mouth open to deliver a greeting, but at a sign from Clive’s companion he stopped and went back to whatever he had been doing. Clive’s host walked briskly to the first door on the right-hand side of the hall and opened it.

  “Come in,” he invited. Again, the words were welcoming, though the voice held a command.

  Clive followed him through the door into a large bright room at the front of the building. Through the tall window he could see the circular drive with his car parked in one corner. The room was furnished with a big desk and chair and several upholstered armchairs. It was plain, even austere, compared with a middle-class family house, but hardly the spartan cell he had expected.

  “I am Jan Petrowski, the abbot here,” the monk introduced himself, waving him to one of the armchairs.

  “Clive Althorpe,” he stammered, responding to the introduction automatically.

  Jan nodded in acknowledgement and went over to an alcove, where a kettle and mugs reposed on a tray.

  “We do, of course, have a kitchen,” he told Clive cheerfully. “But I prefer to make my own coffee rather than have the brothers run after me. They have enough to do as it is.”

  He filled the kettle from a jug of water standing ready and switched it on. “Coffee or tea?” he asked. “Or I have some herb infusions, if you prefer. We grow our own herbs in the garden here.”

  Clive elected for coffee and asked for it with a splash of milk but no sugar. His host nodded and poured hot water on the instant granules, adding milk from a small carton standing in a bowl of water with a cloth over the top.

  “Our purpose here is mainly prayer, you understand, but while you are a guest at the abbey, we are at your service.” He brought Clive one mug and took his own to one of the other armchairs.

  The mugs, Clive noticed, were bone china ones bearing a picture of the Abbey façade outside which he had parked the car. He sipped the coffee and waited for the abbot to speak again.

  “As I explained, we can’t offer hotel accommodation. You came here thinking it was a hotel, I believe you said?”

  Clive nodded. He couldn’t remember why he’d thought so. A newspaper article a few years ago, perhaps?

  “We bought the estate from the hotel chain,” Jan explained. “Before they managed to ruin the building by converting it. It needed quite a lot of restoration work, even so.”

  “You’ve done it well.”

  “We haven’t tried to bring it back to its former Victorian glory,” the abbot went on, “because we like to keep things simple.”

  His eyes twinkled. There was clearly a degree of irony in this statement. “The place used to be a Cistercian house in the Middle Ages, though we follow the Benedictine Rule here now. But we can offer you a retreat instead of a hotel stay––either guided or unguided. There are some free places this weekend, though of course with the New Year holiday, we are quite busy.”

  Clive looked at him blankly. What on earth am I getting myself into? Anchored by the social niceties associated with having accepted a mug of coffee, he could hardly leap to his feet and run, which in his panic he felt like doing.

  “A guided retreat,” his informant went on helpfully, “means that you have someone to talk to once or twice a day, who can suggest reading or types of prayer or meditation. ‘Unguided’ is what it says. You join with the brothers for the services and meals and otherwise follow your own prompting with regard to study and private prayer. We keep silence most of the time, so the unguided retreat has the virtue of letting you discover your own thoughts and feelings without interruption. No one will pry, whichever you choose. We are only here to help if you want us to. And you leave whatever donation you feel is appropriate, according to what you can afford. There is no set tariff.”

  Clive swallowed another sip of coffee and opened his mouth to explain that it was all a mistake and he would just go on his way. Thanks, and all that, but no thanks. And then he thought suddenly, Why not? I have no plans for the weekend beyond getting away from home for a night. Why not stay here? It might be interesting. I might even learn something about myself and why I feel so unsettled at the moment.

  “Well,” he said at last, “I’ve never been on a retreat before. I’m not particularly religious, and I’m an Anglican not a Roman Catholic. But if all those things don’t matter, then thank you. I’ll give it a try. I promised my family I’d be back tomorrow evening, but I could stay tonight. An unguided retreat, please.” I don’t think I feel ready for the type of guidance you’d want to give me.

  Jan smiled at him as though hearing the unvoiced thought. “I’ll get a room prepared for you, then, if you’d like to wait here for a few minutes. There are midday prayers at noon in the chapel, which is on the far side of the quadrangle behind this main part of the house, next to the library.”

  He handed Clive a laminated card which on inspection he found listed the services that made up the Benedictine day. “This card gives you the times of all the canonical hours, but we don’t expect you to manage the night ones unless you want to. It takes a bit of getting used to.”

  Clive glanced at it. There seemed to be some kind of worship or prayer five or six times a day––and they started at 5:30 a.m.! Panic rose in his throat again as the abbot left the room. He must be mad even to think of staying for a retreat. How on earth could anyone cope with services most of the day––and some at night!? He had thought only Muslims prayed five times a day. Still, it was only for a weekend, he reminded himself, and it wasn’t a prison. If he really couldn’t stand it, he could leave.

  “The library is worth a visit,” Jan told him when he returned. “We have some very special books here as well as modern theological ones and books of general interest. Brother Andrew Bobola, the librarian, is a bibliophile and he knows a great deal about the books we have here and the history of the library itself, too.”

  There was a tap on the door, and the little doorkeeper came in to take Clive to his room. He took the key the doorkeeper gave him and went to fetch his bag from the car. The golf clubs would have to stay where they were. Already he was doubtful whether he had made the right decision in agreeing to stay. He opened his mouth to tell the abbot, who was just closing the door of his office, that he’d changed his mind. But then he closed it again. It’ll be a new experience, anyway, he thought. Then, with rather bleak humour, I wonder what Remy would make of it.

  Ten

  Jeremy, having no idea of Clive’s spiritual experimenting in a Benedictine monastery, had not spared him so much as a thought. After his own trip to Whitehill with Mike, the week had quickly become filled with parish commitments. George Warrendon had phoned him in a near-suicidal frame of mind, having received one letter from the police requesting a further interview about their prosecution of him for obstructing the course of justice and another, by the same post, from solicitors in Winchester informing him that his wife Lucinda was requesting a divorce. Jeremy had spent the whole of one night trying to talk him out of the despair that threatened to engulf him.

  The following day, Ben Cartwright’s cough had taken him to hospital with pneumonia, where he had refused to be ministered to by the hospital chaplain but
had summoned Jeremy in querulous anxiety to give him communion in preparation for a demise that the hospital assured him was quite unlikely. All his stalwart stoicism seemed to have deserted him in the face of death, and Jeremy lost much of another night’s sleep calming him, praying with him, and administering the sacrament just in case the medical opinion turned out to be wrong. On top of this, two elderly parishioners died—the weeks immediately after Christmas were always statistically the most likely time for this to happen––and visits and funeral arrangements had to be made with their relatives. In the face of this, family time at home vanished without trace. Parish work claimed all his attention and Jeremy returned to the rectory merely to eat ravenously and sleep exhaustedly.

  Liz, meanwhile, in response to these demands on her husband’s time and energy, manned the telephone, dealt with family arrangements, and ran the household, fitting in the promised trips to Southampton with the twins and Lorna, even managing to finish the sweater she had been knitting for Mike––too late to form part of his Christmas present, but in time for him to wear it for the rest of the winter. She forbore, not without a struggle, to remind her husband that he had promised to put up a new bookshelf in Mike’s bedroom and mend the washing machine, which leaked a little every time she used it, to the detriment of the utility room floor. Unfortunately, the leak was not quite bad enough to count as an emergency, and could easily be put aside in favour of other, more important things—more important, at least, in Jeremy’s eyes. There was always next week. He would get around to it in the end, she told herself patiently, and tried not to wish that they could afford to call in a carpenter and a plumber.